


Alone

by savingpeoplehuntingthings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alone, Angst, Brothers, Character Death, Crying, Deathfic, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savingpeoplehuntingthings/pseuds/savingpeoplehuntingthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is gone and you don't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

You sit down on the bed with the half empty bottle of whiskey; half empty like what's become of your life. You finger your gun, flicking the safety catch on and off and taking comfort in the familiar click it makes in the silence. It's warm in your hand, fitted perfectly to the palm as if it were one with you. 

The whiskey's making your head pound, or maybe that's the gash and ugly purple bruises dotting your unshaven face. You don't know and you don't care. You take another gulp because what difference will it make now? 

His presence is overwhelming but you can't bare to look at him, not even for a second. It's so quiet now. He was never much of a talker, but there was always a noise: the heavy breathing at night that lulled you to sleep; the soft sounds of him typing on the laptop; his gentle chuckle that lit up the room even in the darkest of moments. It was ironic that after all you've been though, your brother would get killed by a regular ghost. 

Your begging, guttering sobs fill the room, replacing that heavy breathing and that soft tapping of the keyboard that you long to hear once more. They say you miss the little things. 

You're tired...so tired. There's nothing left for you here and you could so easily join him but he wouldn't want that, so you don't. Not yet. You don't stop the tears because you're so empty. So alone. And there's no one in the world to see you cry so you let the dams break and the tears pour down your cheeks. He was the only thing you had left and now he's gone you don't know what to do.

He's cold now, and you know you need to do something with his body; battered and cut and swollen and bruised and lying so carefully placed on the motel bed. You've tried, but you couldn't bring yourself to go too near or you'd gag and your hands would shake. But now, with the majority of the bottle inside of you, you think you can take it. 

Slowly, you turn your head. He's rigid and pale, lying just how you left him. His jeans are ripped and muddy, stiff with the blood that dripped from his heart. The shirt is torn and the dark red stain that spreads across his broad chest has turned brown with age. Slowly, you unbutton the shirt, your hands surprisingly steady with the drink. 

Your fingers brush against the cool skin and you shudder, your eyes clouding with salty tears that drip...drip...drip onto his bare skin. You fumble for some scissors and cut away the rest of the shirt. It falls back, exposing the piercing right through the heart. You push down the pain that has crept into your own and continue. Your hands work swiftly now, aching to get the job done. And before you know it, you've stitched up the wound and dressed it, and you sit back and wait for your brother to wake up. 

And then it hits you. 

And your work is futile because what good are stitches and a sterile bandage to a corpse? But you can't just leave him like that so you delve into his rucksack and find another shirt. It's soft and worn and you bury your face in its blue plaid folds because it smells of him. It smells of Sam...of sweat and dirt and leather and petrol and cheap soaps and the faint spice of an ancient deodorant you once shared. You tremble with your hot tears as you breathe in his scent. You miss him. And it hurts. 

So you lift him up into a sitting position. His head lolls onto your shoulder and you support it like you would a baby's while you lay the blue shirt onto the mattress. Then you grasp his shoulders and lay him down gently over the shirt and brush his long hair out of his eyes. He's so heavy now. So cold. So quiet. And you put his arms through the sleeves like you're dressing a doll, and you button up the shirt to cover the white bandages. You do the same with his trousers, grunting and heaving until he's dressed in loose fitting jeans and new socks. You wet the corner of your shirt sleeve and dab at the dried blood on his young face until he's all clean... All innocent. 

Then you kneel by the bed with some water and his comb and you run your fingers through his mattered hair until all the blood and dirt and grit is gone, flaking onto the pillow which you then sweep onto the floor and under the bed. And he looks peaceful now, and you weep. 

You drain the bottle and in your drunken haze you unzip his bag again to take out another shirt. You rid yourself of the black one you're wearing and pull on your brother's. His is too big and it makes you feel even smaller; even more alone. It's grey and black, and the lines and squares and more lines make your head spin so you close your eyes and just breathe in his scent...in...and out...in...and out... 

And you snuggle into the shirt so that for a moment or two, you feel safe in his embrace. And it's all you ever wanted - to be safe... For him to be safe. And you'd promised you wouldn't make a deal to bring your brother back so you won't. But he is safe now. And as you lie on the other bed, eyes closed but facing him, you feel safe too. 

And then your fingers twitch and you do it. 

You pull the trigger.

 

And it doesn't hurt anymore.


End file.
